


Care

by redcandle17



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 02:46:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1671803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redcandle17/pseuds/redcandle17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sandor is wounded while fleeing the Vale with Sansa and Sansa has to take care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Care

It wasn't the worst wound he'd ever suffered, not by a long shot. Sandor knew he was in little danger of dying, despite the pain and despite the blood he was losing. He tried to reassure Sansa Stark, but it only served to convince her that he was being brave and she cried harder. He had to admit, as pathetic as it was, it was nice to have her cradling his head in her lap and crying over him. 

"Stop your weeping, girl. There's work for you or I _will_ die."

She sniffed and wiped her eyes. "What must I do?"

"Heat the wine over the fire. Must sure it's hot." Had it only been two years since he'd directed her sister in performing this same task? It felt like a lifetime had passed since then. The Elder Brother would have said it _was_ a different life, but Sandor tried not to deceive himself much. 

The little bird looked confused when she brought the wine to him. "It's very hot. Won't it burn you?"

"Aye, but I'm not drinking it." He could have taken the tin cup from her and emptied it over the wound on his torso himself, but it gave him a perverse satisfaction to make her do it. "Pour it over the cut."

She was horrified. "That will hurt you." 

"It's what the maesters do, so wounds heal cleanly."

Hands shaking, she held the cup over his ribs and poured. Sandor had meant to stay silent, but when the boiling hot wine hit him, he screamed. Sansa began to cry anew. 

"Wipe away those tears," Sandor rasped, when the pain had eased a bit. "You'll need to see straight for what comes next."

"What is that?"

Sandor bared his teeth in the semblance of a grin. "You're going to sew me up." 

"I can't."

"You have to unless you want me bleeding to death on your gown."

Her face went pale and she hurried to her saddlebag. She fumbled through it looking for her needle and some thread. She took longer than he liked, but Sandor was relieved to see that her hands were steady when she came back. He managed to keep quiet while she sewed, afraid that he might frighten her into losing the needle inside him. 

"Good," he said approvingly, when she was done. "Now let me rest while you take care of those sellswords." 

She glanced at the two bodies sprawled in the snow. "They're dead."

"I know they're dead, girl. Check them for money and take their weapons. Grab their boots too; we can sell them or trade them. If their horses will let you, search their saddlebags."

"Must I?" she pleaded.

"No, let's ring for a servant to do it."

The words stung her. The look on her face was worse than her crying. Sandor watched her move between the bodies, angry at himself and angrier at her for it.

She worked quickly, no doubt eager to be done with it. In short time she had piled the sellswords' belongings beside him, swords and daggers and boots and a few coins. Then she tried to clean her hands in the snow. "Is there anything else, my lord?"

He'd gotten her to call him Sandor only days ago. There was no real reason to go back on the road until morning. Sleeping near the bodies of men he'd killed didn't bother him. But he was sure it bothered her. Sandor pushed himself to his feet. "Pack everything up. We'll ride a bit, then make camp elsewhere."

Sansa hastened to do as he'd bid while Sandor saw to the sellswords' horses. They were a pitiful pair of nags, but some farmer or innkeeper would take them off his hands in exchange for lodgings and a share of the meat. He told Sansa as much while they mounted their own horses. She shuddered and patted her mare's neck as if to reassure the animal that _she_ wouldn't be eaten. 

"Does your wound pain you very much?"

Sandor was surprised by the urge to lie to make her feel better. But it wouldn't change anything. "Yes." 

"I'm sorry."

"You did well, hiding behind Stranger like I told you to, when they attacked." 

"I'm very sorry you were wounded and I'm very grateful you protected me."

If those sellswords had been better fighters or if there had been more than two of them, he might be dead now. As for her, they'd probably rape her all the way back to King's Landing. And once she reached the city, she'd be executed for Joffrey's murder. 

"You'd best pray I can keep protecting you. It would have been safer to stay in your cousin's castle. You should have let me kill Littlefinger."

"Please let's not talk about that."

His instinct was to keep arguing, but Sandor shut his mouth, figuring he owed her for snapping at her before. 

He stopped them at the first decent spot that presented itself. It wasn't as nice a campsite as the one they'd found before, but he was too tired to keep searching. Sansa helped him with the horses and gathered wood for the fire without being told. She was more competent than she appeared when she cared to be. 

She made sure he was adequately covered by the blankets when they laid down to sleep, and she kissed his cheek before snuggling against him. _It's warmer this way,_ he'd told her that first night and since then they slept huddled together. It was warmer than sleeping apart, and safer, and if he enjoyed it too much, well, she didn't seem to mind. 

The Elder Brother's face swam before Sandor as he drifted to sleep. _What a wretched life you've led when you count this as a good night._

The sun was bright in the sky when he awoke, well past the time he usually rose. And Sansa Stark was cooking. Sandor stared at her in astonishment. She was crouched beside the fire, peering into the pot and occasionally stirring it. 

"What are you doing?"

She turned to face him, smiling. "I'm making you soup, though I'm afraid there wasn't much to put in it. Mother and Old Nan always fed us soup when we were ill."

 _I don't have a bloody cold - a sellsword tried to cut out my liver._ Sandor kept the thought to himself for once. It was sweet what she was doing, though he was sure she'd wasted their supplies. "Have you ever cooked before?"

"No," she admitted. "But I've watched cooks working in the kitchen." 

It turned out there was no way to ruin salted beef and onions boiled in water. Sandor ate it with Sansa watching him and looking proud of herself. He had an odd desire to kiss her; odd because it had nothing to do with lust. He set aside the empty pot and strode toward the horses.

"Let's see if we can find a farmer who'll let us spend a few days in his barn while this wound heals."

"As you say, Sandor."

He could hear her humming to herself as she packed their things. He was tempted to carry her to the towerhouse that was his now that Gregor was dead and keep her for the rest of his life. But it was too close to Casterly Rock, even if she would consent.

"Hurry up, girl. We haven't got all day."


End file.
